


The One in the Gents at the MET

by SkipandDi (ladyflowdi)



Series: Moments from the Infiltrate Universe [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bathroom Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Public Sex, Top John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 12:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4829546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyflowdi/pseuds/SkipandDi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's been faffing about in Those Trousers, the ones John has purposely put in storage at least three times because Sherlock won't admit to anyone, let alone himself, that they're too small for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One in the Gents at the MET

**Author's Note:**

> We wrote this purely because Sherlock and John's ridiculousness makes us laugh.

They're in the gents at the MET and John is on his knees and he's never been more embarrassed, or more aroused, in his life.

Sherlock is whispering, urgent, horrified, but John can't stop it, nor can he help himself. Sherlock's been faffing about in Those Trousers, the ones John has purposely put in storage at least three times because Sherlock won't admit to anyone, let alone himself, that they're too small for him. They pinch and squeeze and tug, and John bets he had to lie down on the bed to get them buttoned, and John doesn't care one whit that they're Armani or Gucci or whatever the fuck, because they're downright _indecent_. Their only saving grace is that they're black, but even so in the right light they're so tight John can see the swell of his cock, and he swears, when Sherlock purposely sweeps his coat open, the bloody dimples in his arse.

It isn't right, regardless of the fact that John has never been harder in his entire bloody _life_.

"John," Sherlock gasps, as if he has any say in this at all. John likes the way his hands shake, the way he can't seem to stand straight, slumped instead against the stall door. "What are you--"

"Shut up, just shut the bloody hell up," John growls, yanking at the trouser buttons until they finally ( _finally_ , with a groan of relief) open. Sherlock is so hard underneath so as to be totally obscene, huge and flushing to a deep, dark red the more aroused he gets. John sets his tongue immediately on the head, licking along the slit before filling his mouth full, as far as he can, until the crown is at the back of his throat and he swallows convulsively and something deep and dark and _mean_ is sated.

He pulls free with a line of saliva, glares upwards at Sherlock's shocked face. "You're a bloody attention whore is what you are, I can't believe you came out in these after I told you _not_ to."

"So you're punishing me with a blow job?" Sherlock demands, breathless, and John makes a sound like a furious bear and sucks him back down.

He yanks his flies open and grabs hold of his cock, so hard the first touch of his hand makes him groan around his mouthful. He uses his free hand to squeeze tight around the length of Sherlock's cock he can't reach, sucking furiously until Sherlock is almost humping his face. When he chances a quick look up it's to Sherlock with his fist in his mouth, biting into the expensive leather of his glove, eyes squeezed shut and wet with the shock of pleasure.

"Oh no you don't," he says. He gives Sherlock one last lick and stands, shoving Sherlock over so his front is pressed to the stall wall. He kicks his legs open, pushes Sherlock's coat over onto his hip and those bloody trousers down his arse. They're so tight he has to work them downward, until that lovely, shapely arse appears. He loves that arse, loves the way it looks spread around him, and he digs into Sherlock's coat pocket until he finds the stash of medical-grade lube Sherlock keeps for all manners of things. That there's also a condom makes John snort.

"John--" Sherlock blurts, and John shoves him back against the stall, slicking two fingers and pressing them, no-nonsense, into Sherlock as deep as they'll go. He jerks, shocked, and John thrusts, opening him up and grinding against his prostate until Sherlock's got his mouth full of leather again. John gives him a third finger, quick and perfunctory at best, and then he's ripping open the condom and Sherlock is trying to say his name, but he's suddenly far too full of cock to say one bloody word, and that's just the way John likes it.

He bottoms out, nosing into Sherlock's hair to give him a chance to settle, to get used to the sensation -- they've never done it standing up, not like this, and John finds he is in fact at least an inch too short, so he yanks Sherlock's hip back and settles him lower, just like he wants him.

"You're a bloody tease," he growls into Sherlock's shoulder, biting through wool, then up to his neck, setting his teeth to the strained tendon. "No one gets to look at you like those bloody techs were looking at you, like a piece of meat. Even Dimmock was checking out your bum, do you know that?"

"Ah, so you -- you're jealous," Sherlock says, with a breathless laugh that's cut off with a sharp moan when John rakes his nails down one arse cheek.

"You're damn right I am," John snarls, and pulls his hips back to drive in, hard and deep just the way Sherlock likes it. He clamps a hand over Sherlock's mouth to muffle the sound he makes -- high, gorgeous -- and does it again, and again, setting a quick, furious pace. They fuck like beasts, and John keeps muttering only to keep it going, because Christ above angry sex is always so good with them. John sucks marks down Sherlock's neck, and just when he knows he's reaching the end of what Sherlock can take, he reaches around and grabs hold of Sherlock's cock, squeezing it right at the base to stop him coming. Sherlock makes a sound into John's hand like he's dying and John bucks and comes, the pleasure so good all the hair on his body stands on end. He comes for ages, gasping, and Sherlock is moaning broken and muffled, and it's good, it's so fucking _good._

When he's done, he pulls out, ignoring Sherlock's sharp sound of loss. He shoves him back over onto his back, slumped against the stall, and drops back down to his knees. Sherlock is bright red, streaked with sweat and panting, and John says, "You'll throw these away when we get home."

"Yes," Sherlock gasps -- his cock is a furious purple, hard as rock, and when John strokes a fingertip up the long length of it Sherlock nearly levitates, shoving his fist into his mouth at the last second to muffle his cry.

"Not put them away. You will put these in the bin and throw them out and I'll never see them again."

"John, I rather think that the unintended effect might be something that--" Sherlock cuts himself off, staring down at John between his legs, and blurts, "Yes. Please, yes."

John smiles. "Good lad," he says, and drives his fingers up and in, and his mouth down and deep.


End file.
